


The Drowning

by 13thDoctor



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 13:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11990583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: It takes Jon’s near-death experience for him and Tormund to realize what they mean to one another.





	The Drowning

The snow is churned and trampled like a crumpled piece of parchment. Ice crystallizes on the horse’s hooves and on its rider’s wet hair. Around them, snowflakes fall and fill in the slopes and mounds where other horses and other men have disturbed the smooth white surface. The North is unforgiving, sending its strongest winds to beat at the struggling pair. Jon Snow is conscious of being on the cusp of unconsciousness; the cold penetrates even his marrow, freezing his numb, purpling fingers to his uncle’s horse’s reins. He breathes. He moans weakly. When he inhales, winter claims his lungs like it claims spring flowers.

Benjen’s beast must know its path, and if it doesn’t, then he’s as fucked as he was when he went into the lake. His last thought is one of hope: that his companions made it safely back to The Wall. Exhausted, he hardly struggles when sleep comes. It is easier to fall into that warmth than to fight it.

... 

“That stupid fucker!” Tormund only has one foot off the dragon before he’s complaining about “Jon fucking Snow.” There is a brutality about him that is simply his natural state, but an anxiety about him that leaves most of the men confused. They are mourning Snow, Davos especially, yet their sadness for him is practical, reserved. Tormund rages. Only two people can see this. Daenerys watches him from afar, a sad look on her face, and wonders what it is like to love so fiercely. Jorah Mormont watches Tormund, and then his eyes stray to his queen. He knows what it is like to love so hopelessly.

Their party dismounts—some with grace, others (The Hound) with flailing and cursing—and begins to relay their story to the patient listeners mingling in the yard. Each wears a Crow’s cloak, as it is a miserably cold day. Daenerys is choking on her sorrow, but she still conveys with a detached, flat voice what occurred beyond The Wall. Jorah stands beside her.

Tormund vanishes. He has no desire to hear any words that proclaim Jon Snow a dead man. He goes inside and finds an empty room and kicks stone until his foot feels sufficiently bruised, screaming obscenities until even Clegane would raise his brows. When he is finished, he presses his palms flat against the table, hangs his head, and closes his eyes. The images that assault him are of a soaking wet wight with peeling blue skin and Jon Snow’s face. He bangs his fist against the table and stomps away.

The Dragon Queen is waiting patiently for him in the hall. Her face is blank, like ice. Tormund’s is twisted and hot like fire. She saved them, Tormund knows, except he is angry enough that it no longer matters. “You,” he snarls, “You didn’t believe him, so he had to prove it to you, and now he’s gone.”

“I have a hard time believing Jon Snow does anything he does not want to do,” she replies. Her hostility is a slow knife, whereas Tormund’s is a sledgehammer. “Now, if you will follow me to the top of the wall, I have some matters which I would like to discuss with you.”

“Why the fuck we going up there?” he asks, stubborn because he can be.

Her wide eyes are unimpressed. “I need to think. I imagine the walk would calm you.” He is about to retort when her gaze softens and he is struck speechless. “You must have loved him very much. I’m sorry.”

Tormund blinks. She has already turned, gliding ahead of him, and it takes him three long strides to fall in step on her right. Giving him no time to ponder and certainly no time to ask questions, she launches into plans for reinforcing their place in Winterfell and bringing that dead thing to Cersei Lannister. Their footsteps echo across the stone, and then those sounds are swallowed by the snow piled on every staircase. Halfway up the wall they are joined by Jorah Mormont. Tormund makes a face of disdain, though it feels more habitual than purposeful now.

Some of the anger has ebbed away, leaving him aching. Stupid Jon Snow and his chivalry, wasting away in the water because he wanted to be the hero. Tormund would have given anyone else’s life in replacement. That realization shakes him a little, enough that he loses track of their conversation and their walk. His feet stop when they hit the top level out of instinct alone.

As the queen stares beyond the horizon, Tormund knows it is because she is mourning. He recalls mothers from the Free Folk camps doing the same when their children didn’t return from a hunt or a fight. And he knows, with certainty, with a shock so deep it seems to freeze his feet in place, that what he feels for Jon Snow is akin to how he felt losing a lover.

Mormont tells the queen that they must leave. Having no rational reason to protest, Tormund almost turns to join them in their descent. Suddenly, however, a low horn and exuberant voices filled the air. A lone horse gallops tiredly toward the gate, its rider nearly falling from its back. What floods through Tormund’s veins is the giddiness of a full tankard of mead and the disbelief of having just won an impossible battle. He abandons the Dragon Queen and her knight without thought, allowing his legs to carry him where his heart already lies.

... 

Jon Snow wakes with the first crack of his cloak as they chip it off of him. Dry-mouthed and disoriented, he keeps his eyes shut to focus on just letting his body learn how to breathe again. The ability comes gradually, and the pain is dulled, so he relaxes into the furs on which he has been laid. Warmth seeps into him first, then sound. He knows Tormund’s footsteps without opening his eyes.

Tormund is quiet. He stands in the doorway for a long time before going to stand over Jon’s bed. Then his hand hovers over Jon’s numerous scars, those deep, ugly wounds that create cavernous ridges in his chest. “Stop dying for us,” Tormund whispers. Sorrow disguises itself as anger in his voice.

“Who says I did it for you?” Jon grabs Tormund’s wrist before the wildling can pull away.

Tormund growls, hating to be caught unaware, but does not pull away. Instead, he presses his palm gently over the scar over Jon’s heart as Jon guides him there. His hand his hot, hotter than dragon fire.

The taunting glimmer in Jon’s gaze softens when he turns his attention from Tormund’s fingers to his face. “You look more worried than the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah, and you look much uglier.”

Jon chuckles. Emboldened by Tormund’s unmoving hand, he replies, “I thought I was your pretty crow.”

Tormund licks his lips, makes direct eye contact, and amends, “My pretty fucking stupid crow.” He curls his hand so that blunt fingernails scrape down the scar, and Jon hisses. Tormund imagines himself soothing the scratches with his tongue, and then sighs. His hand he moves to Jon’s face. Although still cold to the touch, a faint blush creeps into his cheeks when Tormund holds him.

“Haven’t we both been stupid?” Jon asks.

Humming, Tormund strokes his free hand down Jon’s side. He watches the way Jon’s breath hitches, the way his eyes darken. “Maybe,” he answers finally, “we’ve been completely fucking blind.”

Jon turns his face in to press a chaste kiss into Tormund’s hand. Tormund, hungry and too fucking done with the amount of times Jon Snow’s tried to leave this world, surges forward and kisses him like he’s a dying man and Jon’s his last breath. Jon’s panting against Tormund’s neck, and Tormund can’t stand it. When Jon gasps, it’s all Tormund can do to stop himself from ripping off all his clothes and starting what should have begun ages ago. So he slows his kisses until he can pull away and rest his forehead against Jon’s.

“Just when I remembered how to breathe,” Jon muses. Tormund scoffs and cuffs Jon on the side of the head, but there’s laughter, too.

“Shut up, Jon Snow.”


End file.
